


Found Family

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Honey Honey [17]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Background characters - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 17:26:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17145956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: It’s a Tuesday, because nothing good happens on a Tuesday. Tuesdays are, all at once, nondescript and utterly awful. If something bad is going to happen, it’s almost guaranteed to happen on a Tuesday, and be raining. Unless you want to test something waterproof (which James knows from experience). They are halfway through sushi bowls, because Steve’s on duty and James is on lunch, and they both felt like sushi but couldn’t be bothered to make it.Steve has nori torn into pieces in his rice, with a tin of mackerel.“It smells like an old beach,” James said when Steve dished up.“Kid,” he said, “I grew up in Brooklyn in the twenties, and most of Brooklyn was in spittin’ distance a’the docks. It ain’thome‘til it smells like the docks. You’re lucky I didn’t use week-old fish.”“Oh, God,” James laughed.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a Tuesday, because nothing good happens on a Tuesday. Tuesdays are, all at once, nondescript and utterly awful. If something bad is going to happen, it’s almost guaranteed to happen on a Tuesday, and be raining. Unless you want to test something waterproof (which James knows from experience). They are halfway through sushi bowls, because Steve’s on duty and James is on lunch, and they both felt like sushi but couldn’t be bothered to make it.

Steve has nori torn into pieces in his rice, with a tin of mackerel. 

“It smells like an old beach,” James said when Steve dished up.

“Kid,” he said, “I grew up in Brooklyn in the twenties, and most of Brooklyn was in spittin’ distance a’the docks. It ain’t _home_ ‘til it smells like an old beach. You’re lucky I didn’t use week-old fish.”

“Oh, God,” James laughed.

It tastes delicious, though, and they’re talking quietly about what James is going to do when his lunch break is over and he goes back downstairs for the afternoon, when the dual tone of the ‘All Available Avengers’ alarm goes off and Steve bolts.

He actually wastes a good three seconds running back to the table to press a brief (and kind of rough) kiss against James’ temple when he comes back from the bedroom suited up, and James can already feel the building rumbling as the jets get started and the hangar doors open way, waaay over their heads.

“Love you,” Steve says, and then the front door’s closing and James is by himself.

Okay.

He finishes the rest of his docks-in-a-bowl and goes back downstairs to the office to get started on his afternoon’s work.

***

He finishes work at five and heads upstairs, and he knows that the Avengers aren’t back yet but it still sucks.

The news says they’re in Nova Scotia, although nobody seems to know why, and James knows that’s less than quarter of an hour away at top speed, but it still feels just as far away as it really is.

Still, he’s got time. It’s only five, and they’ve taken to eating dinner around seven, eight if they get distracted, and as late as nine or ten if something comes up. Tonight, he plans to help Steve make curry from scratch. They already have the chicken marinating, they have a good recipe for keema, and they’ve got the makings for samosas (and, okay, some store-bought parathas). They’re going to have it with mango lassi and have kulfi for dessert, and then they’re going to curl up on the couch with hot chocolate. At the weekend, there’s an exhibition at the MoMA that Steve wants to see, and James doesn’t mind going, especially because things are always way more interesting when Steve explains them. Steve was talking about photography and charcoal, and James is thinking about being a life model while Steve sketches, especially knowing where it might lead. 

They’ve made plans.

But James’ google alert goes off about two seconds before Jarvis speaks over the communication system and talks _directly to him._ It’s such a are occasion that James knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that this is bad.

_“Mister Barnes, Commander Rogers has been injured and will be taken to the on-site medical facilities on his arrival. ETA from Halifax is approximately seven minutes at Mach two-point-five. Please proceed to the kitchen area and retrieve the ‘Go Bag’ from the designated cupboard, as shown by my projection, and then to the elevator.”_

James was already moving by the time Jarvis said ‘injured,’ but he has to double back for the bag ‘cause he’s already heading for the elevator first. There is a reasonably-sized unbranded, unobtrusive gray duffel in a not-quite hidden cupboard in the kitchen island, which Jarvis shows him, and James doesn’t really care what’s in it, he just cares that he has it. Then he’s racing for the elevator.

The car moves, and James realizes that he doesn’t have his phone, his tablet, the laptop, anything, he doesn’t keep ID, he doesn’t even have a sweater.

He spills out of the elevator into what looks like every school or hospital he’s ever been in, shiny vinyl flooring, swing doors with tempered glass, pastels and whites and a lot of low furniture and, directly in front of James, a card-reader with a blinking red light, mounted right next to the door.

“What?” he says. “Jarvis?”

_“Please have a seat, Mr Barnes.”_

Have a seat?

“Have a seat?” he says. “When will- How bad is Steve, how,” his mind is a whirl of panic and confusion - why does he have a duffel bag if the tower has a medical facility? 

What could Steve possibly need that the wing doesn’t have?

_“I am authorized to provide you with a limited summary of the situation and the preliminary medical assessment of the accompanying medical personnel. Because of the nature of these factors, I am currently restricted from allowing access to the tower’s medical facility. Commander Rogers has-”_

It’s like somebody’s struck a match off the length of James’ spine, like somebody’s lit him up from the inside.

“You’re _restricted from allowing me access?”_ he spits, incredulous. “I’m _in love with him!_ I spend all my time with him, we’re _fucking_ , we’ve been together like half a year and you’re telling me you _can’t let me in!?”_

_“While my day-to-day presence is that of an assistant to occupants of the tower, I am also the tower’s primary security system. My protocols do not allow you access, for which I am most regretful. This foyer is as far as I am permitted to allow you.”_

James is struck by that very suddenly, in a way that makes his throat tighten - security won’t let him in, but Jarvis has brought him as close as possible.

“Jarvis,” he croaks, “Jarvis, how bad is it?”

James has never heard Jarvis pause before.

_“The Commander has been shot a total of four times-”_

“Shot _four times!?”_ James manages to choke out.

_“-intercepting a burst of machine-gun fire-”_

Panic rises like mud, thick and cold and cloying, sucking him down.

_“-and is currently critical but stable. He will be taken into surgery on arrival by the tower’s head surgeon, Dr Cho, where it is expected his condition will improve. This is not the first injury of this kind which he has sustained. His records indicate a high chance of full recovery.”_

James isn’t close to tears but only because he wants to slam his hands up against the windows.

The tower shakes, a deep, low hum that rattles his bones, and he can’t tell what’s happening when because he’s never been this high up in the tower when it happens, but he knows it’s the jet, he knows that’s what the main thing is. Whether hangar doors are opening or engines are powering down or craft are maneuvering, he’s got no clue, but he knows they’re back, he knows the Avengers are home, knows Steve is- 

What he sees is medical personnel in white and pale blue and pale green, running from left to right. He sees them come from rooms and down corridors and two of them, running together along the corridor whose wall of glass is the barrier between James and them, slow and stare at him as they pass, but then they’re racing off again.

There’s three minutes where all James can do is fog up the glass and leave his hand prints on the pristine walls and then, dark against the pale pastels of the facility, so far down the only perpendicular corridor James can see down that he can barely make it out, far enough that it’s only his past experience that allows him to tell what’s happening at all, he sees a flash of Steve’s uniform, of skin, a lot of people in dark colors, legs and arms and _so many people_ pushing what must be the gurney he’s lying on. 

They come into view, turn as a party, disappear. James can see blood on the wall - a handprint. He saw the nurse, the surgeon, the _whatever_ in scrubs and a face mask, saw them leave it there when they swung the gurney around, bracing against the wall to prevent collision, going too fast to steer properly. 

There’s a flash of something else, too, red, black, gone.

“Jarvis,” James says, “Jarvis _please_ -”

_“I am assessing the situation in order to contact one of the Avengers, Mister Barnes. As soon as one with adequate knowledge of your relationship with the Commander becomes available, I will request that they confirm your access to me. Please stand by.”_

And then there’s silence, and James is standing with his hands pressed to cold glass, Steve’s duffel by his feet, the distant bustle of the city below him a gentle whisper in his ears, the roar of the jet engines fading into nothing.

~

It is eight minutes before there’s a sound so harsh and sudden that he jumps - a long, sustained buzz that makes him think he’s tripped an alarm until he notices that the light by the card reader has tuned green-

He runs, grabs the bag and _goes_ and Jarvis shows him the way with a light-line on the wall. He goes as fast as his eyes will track the line, left, a right, a long corridor and then another left, a set of doors, another corridor, another set of door and then a right and-

Everyone in the room turns to look at James as he comes squeaking to a halt on the vinyl flooring, duffel swinging so wildly it almost throws his balance.

“Who the hell is this?” asks a woman with red hair and a black suit, the Black Widow.

“Yeah, who the _fuck_ are you!?” James bites back, taking a step or five forward, and finds an arm across his chest a moment later.

It’s Captain America, it’s Sam Wilson holding him back, and the Black Widow raises an eyebrow like she’s _better_ than him.

“Alright, James,” Sam says, and the Black Widow looks at him and scoffs and then turns around, and James could kill her - maybe he will when he has the time.

“Where is he?” James says, looks at Sam Wilson because Sam Wilson’s met him, Sam knows him.

“In surgery,” he says and yeah, James _knows!_

He looks at the big picture window where Ant Man and the Black Widow and Vision and War Machine are but he can’t see because they’re standing there.

“That’s Clint Barton,” Sam says, “that’s the regeneration cradle, Steve’s not in that room, come with me.”

James glares in the Black Widow’s direction but she doesn’t look at him again, and Sam takes him by the shoulders and turns him, takes him through another set of double doors.

Tony Stark is standing very close to the picture window in this room, his arms folded. Wanda has her arm across her stomach and her other hand over her mouth. Thor is leaning against one wall and Carol Danvers is standing at the middle of the window with her arms by her sides and her head down. In the couple of seconds it takes James to clock them all, Wanda turns, lowering her hand from her mouth.

“James,” she says, and the others look at him.

Stark frowns but who gives a fuck? James walks to the window like he’s metal and it’s magnetized, and only doesn’t walk face-first into the glass because the window has a sill that bruises his hipbones. 

He must have dropped the bag ‘cause he’s not holding it now because that-

James-

He’s never seen-

Somebody’s arm is around his shoulders, he’s being tugged sideways, somebody’s hugging him, Steve is-

Steve is unconscious and his uniform has been cut away over his torso though the rest is intact, sleeves, pants, boots still on, and there’s blood, there’s _a lot_ of blood, it’s on the table, on all the utensils, the floor, there’s blood on pale scrubs and white gloves, blood on tubes and wires, blood on the masks, blood on the mask Steve’s wearing, on the _inside_ of the mask Steve’s wearing, blood in dark, tacky lines down the sides of Steve’s face like a band, from his nose, from his mouth, sticky in the hair on the back of his neck, on his throat, dull on the tags and chain where they’ve been shoved out of the way and rest flat on the table near his ear-

One, two, three, four, hip, stomach, chest, shoulder. He must have been strafed - is it strafed, is that the right term? Do they go all the way through? Steve was fine, James was talking to him just this afternoon. He was standing up and smiling and his skin was smooth and his blood wasn’t all over the operating theater, his eyes were open, he was smiling.

“What are the chances,” James says, “what are his chances?”

“Who’s this?” Stark asks.

James doesn’t have the strength to answer him the way he answered the Black Widow, is she going to kill him in his sleep?

“It’s Steve,” Sam says, answering James, not answering Stark. “I can’t give you stats on his odds, but this isn’t the first time, and she’s the best of the best.”

“We know this kid?”

“This is the intern,” Sam says, and his voice sounds like it’s coming through cotton candy. “The one Steve’s been dating.”

“ _This_ is Steve’s intern!?”

James doesn’t have the energy to make his ‘actually I’m an employee’ argument.

“He’ll be all right,” Wanda murmurs, very close and a welcome change over the conversation Stark and Sam are having, even if he knows Stark is fixating on this one thing because that’s what human beings do in a crisis. “He’ll be alright.”

“We,” James says, body leaden as shiny silver tools get passed back and forth, as red blood gets replaced by brown iodine and Steve’s long lashes rest, still, against his cheekbones, the rest of his face obscured by a plastic mask and a corrugated tube, “were going to make dinner…”

***

Surgery takes a while. Danvers leaves, and Stark gets out his phone or something, Thor comes and goes. Sam sits James down between himself and Wanda.

Sam tells James things will be all right, apologizes for bringing it up but tells James about a few of the other occasions Steve’s been rushed into surgery - caught by a flailing bridge cable and paralyzed for a week, hit in the head by a split beam and couldn’t find his mouth with a jello spoon for a fortnight.

Wanda tells him it’s necessary because Steve’s so good at healing, that surgery is only a high priority for Steve so that his healing factor can have all the help it needs.

“I don’t understand,” James says, miserable as Sam presses warm coffee into his hands. 

It’s actually good coffee but it tastes bitter and acrid in James’ mouth when he takes a sip.

“It is,” Wanda says, her hand on his back, “easy for Steve’s body to heal. He heals quickly, very quickly, compared with the rest of us. But something like this…”

James looks at her, shakes his head. Something like this what?

“James,” Sam says, and James turns his head to look at him.

Sam isn’t smiling.

“Surgery for Steve isn’t about fixing damage. It’s about stopping his body damaging itself.”

“Sam,” Wanda says, but Sam glances over James’ shoulder at her, and keeps on talking anyway.

“GSW ain’t like a stab wound, it ain’t just a puncture. It’s not just a hole, it’s a bullet that’s traveling _fast_. It tears a wound and makes a shockwave as it moves. It’s like a car-crash for your insides, and anybody else’d need months of therapy, multiple surgeries. Steve heals _fast_ , his body _starts_ fixin’ what’s wrong within minutes. Dr Cho’s pulling together the shit that’s damaged so Steve’s body can heal it ‘cause if she don’t?”

James fights a chill.

“It’ll heal wrong,” he says. 

“Right,” Sam tells him. “Not forever, but to start. So she’s gotta make sure everything’s where it’s s’posed to be, otherwise it heals in the wrong place, and then it’s surgery to put it in the _right_ place. Worse, Steve pulls his ‘it’s nothing I’m fine’ act and it’s six months of broken bones grinding their way back into where they should be while he pretends there ain’t a damn thing wrong. Y’understand?”

“It looks bad,” Wanda says softly, hugging him sideways again, “but it isn’t as bad as it looks. It has to be done fast, efficiently, and then his body will take care of the rest. But he made it to the operating room.”

“And if he makes it to the operating room,” Sam says, “no reason to believe the serum won’t take care of the rest.”

James shakes his head, holds his coffee in both hands and looks down into it.

“He got shot _four times,_ ” he whispers.

“Yep,” Sam says, his voice calm and low. “We deal with some bad people and we don’t always make it outta the way. Clint was pulling something we needed outta something that wasn’t stable, and it blew up in his face. Cap- Steve was…” Sam clears his throat. “There was some kid in the wrong place and Steve saw’m and…he went to get him and then he was out in the open.”

James turns his head, looks at Sam.

“Is the kid okay?”

Sam stares at him for a moment, then looks at Wanda. 

James closes his eyes, holds his coffee tighter. 

“Steve caught a spray, that’s why he went down so fast. Serum gets to it right away - four holes is harder to fix than one - she’s making sure the metal’s out so his body don’t have to push it out, she’s making sure the tracks are clean and breaks are set and everything’s where it’s meant to be ‘cause it’s easier to smooth over cracks than fill in gaps. Then we can transfer Steve to a room and he can just sleep until he wakes up.”

James nods, and then Sam stands up.

“I’m gonna get out of my wings and shit, and then I’ll get back. Anything you need?” 

Everybody shakes their heads, and then Stark follows him out, goodness knows why.

“He has good anaesthetic,” Wanda says. “She just makes it easier for him to rest, for the serum to do what it should.”

“What are his chances?” James says again.

After a very long, very heavy pause, it’s Jarvis who answers.

_“Current assessment and prognosis indicates seventy-nine percent and rising.”_

“I brought,” James says. “Thank- Thank you, Jarvis. I brought his bag, there was a bag. He asked- left a message.”

Wanda frowns at him, then looks at the gray duffel by their feet. Sam brought it over from where James had dropped it, and Wanda hefts it up onto her lap and opens the zip.

“What would he even need me to bring?”

But Wanda doesn’t answer him for a very long time. He looks up from his coffee, looks at her face and then down at where she’s staring, and he finds that she has a sweater in her hands. It’s the one like the one Steve bought him a few weeks ago - warm and comfortable, this one olive green instead of autumn orange. She also holds two capsules of his favorite brand of coffee creamer, and he realizes it’s not a bag for Steve.

He takes the sweater out of her hands. There’s a toiletry bag, with a toothbrush, toothpaste, sponge, soap bar. There’s a set of pajamas, slippers, fresh socks and underwear and a stick of deodorant, even a tablet computer. James doesn’t even turn it on - he knows it will be paired to his own.

This isn’t a go-bag for Steve, this is a bag of essentials for James. So that, if James wants, he doesn’t even have to leave the medical facility to run downstairs and get his stuff.

James unfolds his sweater and a small piece of folded paper tumbles out into his lap, bounces onto the floor.

When he picks it up, it’s the size of a post-it, and says,

 _Don’t fret  
x_

He feels his face crumple. 

Wanda hugs him.

***

Steve’s hospital room - not a hospital room, a recovery room - is big and doesn’t look all that different from a normal bedroom. It has a TV and a window with curtains and a closet and a bathroom. There’s a two-seater and a couple of nice, wooden chairs. Sam is in one of them, on the other side of the bed. There’s an armchair, a radio, plenty of outlets, a coffee-maker, a desk. There’s an en suite. There’s another small door that leads to a room James can see is a kitchenette.

The only difference between this and any other apartment is that the main piece of furniture in the room is a bed, not a couch. The head of the bed has been tilted upwards, and the whole thing has rails, small screens embedded in the walls nearby. And there is Steve.

James has never seen him look so small. 

The bed covers are not the unflinching pallid greens and blues of the medical wing. They’re wine-colored quilts over white sheets, patterned pillowcases. There’s a matching cloth on the nightstand. 

Steve is dressed in gray marl - a long-sleeved shirt and James knows he wears matching pants. He has a thick, gray clip on his finger and a tube up his nose that’s taped to his cheek. He is paler than James has ever seen anybody, huge, dark swathes like brown boot-polish under his eyes. There’s a small brown nick high on his cheek bone and a slightly bigger one on his lower lip, mottled bruising fading almost quickly enough that James can see it, stubble growing nearly as quickly.

Steve’s arms rest atop the covers, his hands loose.

“Hello,” the attending nurse says as James walks in - the clock on the wall says about a quarter to three in the morning. “It’s okay, we keep the tube in for oxygen levels but he’s breathing by himself. The clip is to monitor oxygen in his blood. He’ll have the catheter until he can stand.”

James hadn’t even noticed that.

Steve’s skin is still yellowish in places, where the iodine stained, and the chain around his neck looks rusty it’s so bloodstained. There are raised patches under the shirt that must be dressings, and his hair spills soft over his forehead, stubble beginning to grow pale against his jaw.

“Can he hear me?”

“He’s not under,” the nurse answers, smiling. “He’s got anesthesia but no sedative - he’s just sleeping.”

James frowns, looks at Steve and then at the nurse.

“Already?” he says, and the nurse nods minutely.

“Yeah,” he says. “You can ask Jarvis for medical staff or room service. The armchair reclines, if you want to stay. He’s gonna be fine.”

James looks at Steve, and the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“Thanks,” James says, quietly now he knows Steve’s sleeping. 

The nurse checks a few more things and then leaves, and Sam smiles at James, albeit a little tightly.

“Hey,” he says. “How you holdin’ up?”

James nods.

“Okay,” he says.

Sam continues to look at him.

“I don’t think it’s hit me yet,” James tells him honestly, and Sam nods this time, looks at Steve.

“Yeah,” he says. “I get that. You know we’re here when it does, okay?”

“Thanks,” James murmurs.

James sits down in the armchair Sam has left empty for him, and gets the tablet computer in his lap. He’ll play solitaire or something. Memory games, shapes, pair matching, whatever. Something to occupy his time and make it so he doesn’t have to think until he’s tired enough to sleep.

***

It’s not like a movie - James isn’t fast asleep with his hand in Steve’s when Steve’s eyelashes flutter open so he can whisper “James” emotionally, and they can have a beautiful reunion, morning-breath be damned.

James falls asleep in the chair at around five, and wakes at seven in the morning when the door opens and the Black Widow walks in. Even before she’s made it into the room, she’s glaring at James. 

James doesn’t stand up because his mother taught him to stand up when a lady enters the room, and he’s yet to see one. Then he stands up because _wow_ tired James is a bitch and he can feel his mom glaring at him all the way from Brooklyn. But he still doesn’t like the Black Widow and, although part of him is aware that she’s a world-renowned super-spy with the ability to inflict grievous bodily harm without even any weapons, the other part of him knows that this is Steve’s recovery room and she probably won’t try and kill him here.

“So this is James,” she says, arms crossed, speaking to Sam.

“To your right a little,” James says, leaning to catch her eye. “I’m over here.”

“James,” Sam says, but the Black Widow raises an eyebrow, face like stone, moves only her eyes to look at him.

“So you are James,” she says, not quite biting the words out.

“And you’re Natasha Romanov,” James answers, not really sure where he’s going with it.

“The intern,” she says.

“The Cornell graduate, the Avengers Tech developer, and the boyfriend of Commander Rogers, actually, what of it?”

She narrows her eyes, smirks unpleasantly. 

“A little young, aren’t you?”

James bites his lip on his next retort. That wouldn’t do to say to any lady, let alone an internationally revered assassin. 

“Who let him in here?” she says, clearly aware he wanted to answer and restrained himself. 

“ _I_ let him in here,” Sam answers before James can voice his outrage, and she turns her head and glares. “So that he could sit with somebody he cares about who is injured because, otherwise, he might be cranky about it even though they’re gonna be fine.”

She narrows her eyes _even more_.

 _“Vam povezlo, chto vy privlekatel'ny,”_ she says.

“Rude considering I don’t speak Russian,” James says. _“Rúguǒ yīngyǔ duì nǐ tài yǒu lǐmào, wǒ huì xuéxí pǔtōnghuà.”_

She glares at James again.

“I said _Nǐ hěn xìngyùn, nǐ hěn yǒu mèilì.Wǒmen jiē xiàlái yào chángshì xībānyá yǔ ma?_ ”

“How about y’all speak in English?” Sam tells them both. 

At which point, a very rough, very slurred voice says,

“I ’ve a better ‘dea,” and the three of them are all, apparently, just as surprised as each other, and turn to look at Steve immediately. Steve’s eyes are closed, his mouth is slack, and it takes a few moments for him to draw a slow, deep breath and continue speaking. “Shuddup... ‘r geddout.”

Romanov looks probably about as admonished as she probably ever will, and James knows that the reprimand is probably meant just as much for him as it was for her but he chooses to ignore that fact, if not the request.

James leans over Steve while Sam checks a couple of the monitors by the side of the bed. Steve’s eyes still don’t open but his fingers close around James’ when James takes his hand, his brow furrows minutely when James brushes the hair off his forehead.

“We should-” Romanov says but, to James’ surprise, Sam interrupts.

“Go see how Clint’s doing,” he says. “Good idea.”

For a few very tense moments, Romanov looks like she’s thinking about telling Sam what to do with that idea and then demonstrating on him just to be clear, but she subsides after a few moments.

When she turns to leave, she gives James a look that lowers the temperature in the room by about ten degrees, and then saunters off like the whole thing was her idea. Sam follows her out of the room with a tight smile and a sharp nod.

“You can call for help if you need it,” he murmurs, and closes the door behind him.

James sits back down in the chair and keeps his hand in Steve’s. It’s big and cool and dry, and his fingers are fairly loose, but it’s definitely a deliberate grip.

“James?” Steve says a moment later (only without any of the vowels), as if to prove it.

“Hi,” James says, “hey, I love you. I love you, I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Mmm,” he says.

He doesn’t say anything else for a long while.

And then James realizes that he hasn’t said anything else for a long while.

“Steve?” he says, very very quietly.

Steve doesn’t answer him, just breathes. 

James sits back in his seat, his hand in Steve’s, and settles his tablet in his lap again.

Alright, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Kittens for the technical term for AoU tech.
> 
> James and Natasha’s 'conversation' goes like this:
> 
> Sam: (English) I let him in here so that he could sit with somebody he cares about who is injured because, otherwise, he might be cranky about it even though they’re gonna be fine.  
> Nat: (Russian) You’re lucky you’re cute.  
> James: (English) Rude considering I don’t speak Russian. (Mandarin) I’m learning Mandarin, if English is too polite for you.  
> Nat: (English) I said (Mandarin) you’re lucky you’re cute. Are we going to try Spanish next?  
> Sam: (English) How about y’all speak in English?


	2. Chapter 2

Steve’s beard is growing in - Nurse Gari, because that’s his name and it’s short for Garibaldo because he’s amazingly Italian - comes in and rearranges the tube so the beard isn’t disturbing it, and James looks at Sam.

“Does he need,” he says, and then kind of chokes.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam tells him. “He’s needed shaving before now but only if he’s all the way under. He’ll do it himself when he wakes up.”

James nods, chews his lower lip and rubs his fingertips over the back of Steve’s hand.

~

James has answered all his texts, let all his family’s calls go to voicemail, ignored the news.

Sam pulls his chair around to James’ side of the bed, tugs a little coffee table close. 

They play blackjack. James doesn’t really know who wins most.

~

Steve’s stomach growls at around nine. In fact, it damn near roars, and Steve actually winces where he lies, face screwing up. His head turns a little. 

“Y’okay?” Sam asks, and James looks at him, unsure about what he means, but it turns out he wasn’t talking to James.

“Mmm, spam. Waffles?” Steve says. 

“Not sure you’re ready for that, man,” Sam answers, and Steve settles into silence again.

He probably didn’t even hear Sam at all.

~

Romanov reappears, and she’s explaining to Sam about some revised schedule or other, when Steve makes noise.

“Clint?” he slurs.

“Will be fine,” Romanov says. “They put him in the cradle and he’s in recovery too.”

And _then_ Steve’s eyes open, two dark and glittering slits, as his head turns towards Sam.

“The kid?”

Sam pauses, mouth tightening. He shakes his head. 

Steve’s eyes close again, face pinching.

 _“Kak ty sebya chuvstvuyesh'?”_ Romanov says, and James sees Steve’s jaw tighten.

“In _English,_ Natasha,” he answers, voice like gravel, brow furrowing though his eyes are still closed.

She clenches her jaw, then unclenches it.

“How are you feeling?” she says, with a carefully enunciated sweetness James doesn’t think is genuine.

“Bad,” he says.

“Any pain?” Sam asks.

“Mnh,” he answers, head turning to the side a little.

“Is there anything you want us to get you?” Sam says, but Steve doesn’t move after that, doesn’t speak, gives no indication that he’s heard. “Right.”

Romanov leaves.

James is fucking glad.

~

Steve doesn’t stay conscious much, and the Black Widow doesn’t come back, although Sam comes and goes. Wanda comes in once, that afternoon, to make sure all is well, but she doesn’t stay long, just waves her hand over Steve’s face with a wisp of what looks like red smoke, and then smiles sympathetically, gives James a hug, and goes. 

Even Tony Stark makes an appearance. He comes over to James and says,

“I thought you were the Chinese girl,” because he’s Tony Stark. 

James wonders if he knows her heritage from her file or if he’s just able to tell. Either’s possible.

Tony Stark doesn’t shake his hand, but he does point at Steve.

“If Ripped van Rogers likes you, that’s good enough for me even though you’re incredibly young - because you’re smart and you’ve got balls, so I’d like you in tomorrow afternoon to consult on the meeting with your manager and th- is it Amy? Her name’s Amy?”

James nods.

“Okay, I’d like you downstairs at one for the meeting with your manager and Amy, and then you could come back up. The meeting’s important but I’m not a sadist.”

Sam objects immediately.

“For God’s sake, Tony-”

“Okay, so I’m tired,” Stark says, “I’m not good at this at the best of times and what I mean is that I’d _like_ you in the meeting, but you’re not _obligated._ If you think you can, be there. If you don’t want to, tell Jarvis. I’m not going to fire you if you take a day when your boyfriend’s been shot four goddamned times, Jesus Christ, Wilson, what do I look like to you?”

Sam apologizes, and James realizes that they’re all feeling it. He doesn’t know if the Black Widow really hates him but if Tony Stark, Iron Man, unflappable lunatic, can get upset because Steve’s injured, it stands to reason she might be upset about it too.

“Peanut butter,” Steve says.

James blinks.

“Crunchy?” he asks.

“Mmmh,” Steve sighs, and then he’s out again.

“I don’t want to be in the meeting,” James says. “It’s good of you to give me the choice, I appreciate it.”

Stark holds up his hands.

“Alright,” he says. “That’s fine. You know you can ask Jarvis for things, yes?”

James nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.”

Stark nods, glances at Sam with a nod, and then he leaves.

Steve surfaces once more for the rest of the day, round about the time James is considering calling out for pizza.

“You _hate_ liver,” he says, inexplicably, and then he doesn’t even stir when one of the medical staff with clearance brings the pizzas in an hour later. 

James ordered him one just in case, but it grows cold on the nightstand while Sam and he talk quietly about the horrors and benefits respectively of pineapple on pizza.

“Steve likes pineapple,” James says.

“That’s ‘cause Mr Disgrace-to-New-York never had pineapple growing up. He likes broccoli and olives on pizza, too, you’re not helping your cause.”

For the first time in a day and a half, James feels himself maybe beginning to smile.

***

Steve wakes properly on the third day. James has watched him have his dressings changed and his drips refilled, his breathing tubes moved and his various readouts written down but, because life is not a carefully constructed motion picture, Steve doesn’t happen to come awake in the morning, or when most people are there. He slides back into consciousness with all the elegance of a greased foal at around one o’clock in the afternoon, when Gari’s reading his vitals off the side of the bed.

Steve says, 

“Nnno!?” in actually a reasonable tone of voice considering, but then kind of jerk-flails in the bed, as though he’s ducking something none of the rest of them can see.

And then he _really_ regrets moving.

“Juh-” he says, “ _hee_ sus what th-” he gasps, words coming on the intake, “fuck, fuck is,” he swallows hard and, by then, Gari’s trying to stop him moving his arms and his body, Sam on the other side of him to help. “Ow,” Steve gasps, “ow, owow-”

“Take it easy, Steve,” Sam tells him. “You’re at the tower.”

Steve’s gone rigid with pain, pressing himself back into the pillows in an attempt to not move any more.

“Ah,” he says, “ow, ow…”

“You’ve been shot, just try to keep still,” Gari says, resting his hand on Steve’s good shoulder. “You’re about three days into recovery, Dr Cho’s surgery went without complications, you took a left to right burst, four holes.”

Steve is gasping in a way that really puts James on edge - it’s not the deep, guttural groaning of someone who’s stubbed a toe or hit their head, it’s the high, whistling breaths and hissing through teeth of someone in so much pain they can’t get enough air. Like a stubbed toe or a boot to the public bone - he’s holding himself achingly still, too, James can see that his head is back, the tendons in his neck protruding, with his hands in claws and his right leg scrabbling. He gasps so violently it sounds like he might throw up, and Sam gets a better grip and leans down over him to help Gari get him flat again.

“Christ, _Christ_ ,” Steve says, and there’s really very little any of them - Steve included - can do until the pain dies down.

Sam and Gari keep their hands on him, James notes - and Sam looks back over his shoulder at James, nods towards Steve’s leg because it’s close to James.

“I’m gonna put my hand on your leg, too,” James says, ‘cause the last thing Steve needs to do is startle again, and then he just gently rests his hand over Steve’s ankle, tightens his hand around it and tries to be a point of contact while pain makes Steve search for comfort.

It takes a minute or so until he can relax, until the pain isn’t quite so present or immediate, and then, when Steve’s breaths are coming slower, blown out instead of hissed, the tension leaving his limbs little by little, James rubs his thumb over Steve’s ankle bone.

“You know,” Gari says, when Steve is pretty much settled again, albeit breathing heavily, “it’s a good job you had people here with you, otherwise that incredible spike you just made on your heart monitor might’ve got me in trouble.”

“Sry,” Steve breathes, and Gari shakes his head, does something with the IV.

“I’m not serious,” he says. “I’m pushing some painkillers, I’ll want to get a little nutrition in you via a bag, then I’ll want to take a look under those dressings and make sure everything’s coming along according to schedule. No reason to think the dermis and epidermis shouldn’t be good by now - if there’s abnormal discoloration, that could indicate malformation of the subcutaneous tissue and we’d need to put you back in with Dr Cho, but I doubt you’ll need it. Do you want enough pain meds to get under or you wanna be awake?”

“Awake,” Steve says. “Please. Can I eat?”

“Do me a favor,” Gari says, injecting the painkillers into Steve’s IV. “If I ask you to sit up without using your hands, you think you can manage? Stomach crunch?”

“On four bullet wounds?” Steve says sceptically, and Gari smiles apologetically and finishes up.

“I’m glad you said that, remember it when I tell you this - you can eat, but only soup, or drink liquids. No solids for you until you won’t fall unconscious trying to pass them. Okay?”

James wouldn’t even have thought of that.

“Aw, hey, corn,” Steve says, “corn, the Japanese-”

“Yeah, I can whip you some of that up,” Sam says.

“Angels,” Steve says. “You’re angels. Hey, Sam, you even got the wings-”

“And if you cheat and have ‘chunky soup’ that turns out to be stew,” Gari says, “I’m gonna say I told you so when your bare ass falls face-first on the bathroom tiles, _capisce?”_

 _“Capisco,”_ Steve says, wincing.

 _”Buono,”_ Gari says, and then he does something to his tablet and tucks it under his arm. “I’ll be back with your other meds and your nutes in a couple minutes.”

Steve nods.

 _”Grazie,”_ he mumbles. 

James takes a second to parse that ‘nutes’ is short for nutrients. Then he realizes that it’s been days since Steve ate or snacked or even took the supplement pills he pops sometimes.

“Sam,” he says, “wait, Steve, you haven’t even had your pills!”

“It’s okay,” Sam says, reaches out and touches James’ shoulder, “it’s okay, Gari’s gonna put it right.”

Steve looks at Sam, and then at James, like the light in the room is a little too bright, and shakes his head.

“ ‘S’okay,” he says, “The IV, it’ll…yeah. Can - I don’t know, peanut, uhm,” he says, and he’s frowning and looking on the bed for something.

“What’s up, man, you wanna know if you can eat peanut butter?”

Steve’s gaze snaps up.

“Is there peanut butter?”

Sam nods.

“Crunchy,” he says. “Want me to ask if you can have it?”

“I like,” he says, looks at James, “peanut butter, yeah, can I?”

“I’ll ask Gari if you can have it,” Sam says, standing, and Steve watches him walk out and then looks at James.

“It’s bad, huh?” he says. “I got shot.”

“Four times,” James says. 

“That’s a lot,” Steve says.

James manages not to frown in confusion about a split second before it shows on his face, and smiles instead.

“Sure is,” he says. “How you feelin’?”

Steve blinks at him.

“James,” he says very slowly.

James nods.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

“James, did I already ask about food?”

James smiles.

“Sam’s gone to go ask Gari if you can have food.”

Steve’s gaze slides sideways. 

“That’s nice of him,” he says. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“No,” James says. “You’ve been shot.”

“Mmm,” Steve says, nodding just a little. “Four times. But it’s…Did I hit my,” and his hand moves a little, lifts a little way.

“You didn’t hit your head,” James tells him. “You got sedative.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Steve says, eyes a little too wide. “Gari gave me sedative.”

Sam comes back in, smiling, and he pats Steve’s foot as he goes by.

“Good news,” he says. “ says you can eat the peanut butter if you make sure you drink plenty, too.”

Steve’s eyebrows go up.

“Is it,” he says, and then frowns, looks at James.

“It’s crunchy,” he says. 

Steve beams, then his smile slips a bit.

“I’m fuckin’ beat,” he says. “Can I just have it with a spoon, Sam?”

Sam has moved into the kitchen area and James hears cutlery.

“That was the plan, Cap,” he says. “Big spoon or little spoon?” 

“Little spoon,” he says, groans a little in a way that James realizes after a moment is him trying to clear his throat without coughing. “Easier to get in my mouth.”

That’s a point - he’s got a couple days of beard growth, the last thing they need to be doing is sponging peanut butter out of it. Although, actually,

“Want me to feed you?” James asks, and Steve looks at him like he’s not sure he’s heard correctly.

“Do I want,” he says. “Feed. No.” And then he seems to get it. “Sorry, no, I’m,” he says, “I can manage this time. Nice to know you said it though, who knows next time with this job?”

Sam appears with the jar and the spoon, and Steve looks up at him, then down at the jar and spoon being held out to him.

“Aw, you took off the lid,” he says. “I coulda done it.”

Sam rolls his eyes, gives James a look like _r u srs boi_ , and James stifles a laugh as Steve starts on the jar of peanut butter. 

“I’m comin’ back with a big ol’ glass of water.”

“I’m already a big ol’ glass of water,” Steve says, and then looks at James, grinning.

James doesn’t manage to stifle the laugh this time.

“Ah-huh,” Sam says, sucking his teeth a moment. “A’right. I’m gettin’ one anyway.”

He goes back into the kitchenette and Steve frowns at the jar.

“Where,” he says. “Buttons for up.”

“What?” James says, and Steve looks around.

“There’s an up button and a down bu- The bed goes-” and then, _hilariously,_ Steve holds up his hand and tilts it as he makes the high-pitched noise of the small motors inside the mechanism “- _r-e-e-e-e-e_ -” James is _so_ lucky he’s not trying to drink anything.

“Right,” he says, the bed buttons, the bed is adjustable. “You wanna sit up a little?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Please. Otherwise I have to drink it and that’s hard.”

“’Cause it’s crunchy,” James says, locating the controls on the side of the bed.

“No, ‘cause it’s non-newtonian,” Steve answers, and James sort of double-takes at him. 

“Got it,” he says, and then he bites his lower lip so Steve doesn’t think James is just like….constantly laughing at him. “Ready?”

Steve nods as James brings him up a little, and he stops when Steve’s almost sitting up completely. 

“Thank you,” Steve says, and then he yawns. “Ooh. Sorry.”

James smiles a little.

“It’s okay,” he says, and then suddenly James feels different - it’s like somebody’s pulled the plug out of a bathtub or like someone shut off an old lamp, like a car that’s run out of gas or something, he can feel himself rolling into a different feeling, sinking into something else. “Uh,” he says, and then he's going to get onto his feet - he’ll go to the kitchen because Steve’s- Steve nearly- James is, wow, okay, _now_ he’s having some kind of like…

He presses his hand to his mouth.

“Hey,” Steve says and, when James looks at him, Steve’s frowning, concerned, holding out his good arm. “Hey, hey…”

James shakes his head, has to shake his head harder when his eyes go hot and his vision blurs and then, 

“Aw, honey, honey, no,” Steve says, “Sam, help, he’s too far-”

“Man, the _hell_ kinda shit you talkin’ _now,_ huh? Oh.”

And then there’s a soft clunk - Sam’s put the glass of water down somewhere - and James’ whole world kind of shifts because Sam’s moved the chair, and then there’s another clunk and then there’s a hand on his wrist, cool and dry.

“Sweetheart,” Steve says, and James swipes at his face, sniffs.

“Sorry,” he says, “’m sorry.”

But he can almost _hear_ Steve shaking his head.

“No, me- m- _I’m_ , aw honey, _I’m_ sorry,” he says, and his fingers move, slide under James’ palm. James holds them tight. “Honey, it’s okay,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m just,” James says, and he sniffs harder, “glad you’re okay.”

And it feels dumb - always does like this, he hates crying in general, but crying in relief is the worst. Still, it’s not so bad. It’s not like everyone can see him - just Sam and Steve and, really, if he’s honest, what far outweighs the fact that he’s bawling in front of both Captains America is the fact that Steve, his Steve, is still here to see him do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Splint for the Falcon backup ^^

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks Kittens for the technical term for AoU tech.
> 
> James and Natasha’s 'conversation' goes like this:
> 
> Sam: (English) I let him in here so that he could sit with somebody he cares about who is injured because, otherwise, he might be cranky about it even though they’re gonna be fine.  
> Nat: (Russian) You’re lucky you’re cute.  
> James: (English) Rude considering I don’t speak Russian. (Mandarin) I’m learning Mandarin, if English is too polite for you.  
> Nat: (English) I said (Mandarin) you’re lucky you’re cute. Are we going to try Spanish next?  
> Sam: (English) How about y’all speak in English?
> 
> Here is [a link to a timeline](https://66.media.tumblr.com/aac4be76b217f7b6ea54592e0a76d168/tumblr_inline_pg5mcewTA21rckout_500.png) if you'd like to know the dates of the occurrences in this fic up to part 10.


End file.
